


Sierra – 12/30

by imachar



Series: 30 ficlets series [12]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, M/M, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An away mission gone bad drives Chris and Phil into very dangerous BDSM territory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sierra – 12/30

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd - read at your own risk. Written for **zauzat** , who once asked for the story of when Chris had to use his safeword.

Even as he goes to his knees Chris knows that this is a really bad idea. They are both too raw from the mission; riding a razor’s edge between the adrenaline thrill of surviving and the crippling grief of losing so many in a firefight they were never destined to win. But he’s craving the release that can only come when he puts himself entirely in Phil’s hands; craving it enough to ignore the warning voice of reason and drop his head in submission no matter how dangerous it might be with both of them strung out on fear and guilt and the panicked realization that either of them could have been among the day’s casualties.

The industrial grade decking is rough on his skin as he shifts into a more comfortable position, not quite stable as he stretches his arms down, his hands bound just a little too tightly and tethered to his equally tightly bound ankles. That Phil has used leather – a couple of belts – to bind him is different enough to set his heart racing. Nothing like the silk or soft cotton of the cords he usually uses, the leather bites into Chris’s skin, presses on the bones of his ankles and wrists and brings home the vulnerability of his submission in a whole new way. He shivers, not daring to look up as he feels the heat from Phil’s naked body, almost close enough to touch but not quite, hovering like a threat behind him.

And then there’s a strong hand in his hair and Chris takes a deep, slightly shocked, inhale as Phil wraps his fingers tight and pulls his head back and the look in his eyes – dark and desperate and fiercely possessive – sends a twisted mix of lust and apprehension surging through Chris’s blood.

“You sure you want this?” Phil’s voice is deceptively quiet, and Chris can see the effort that it’s taking for Phil to restrain himself, to ask and not just take, to wait until Chris gives him the permission he needs to unleash all his anger and fear and frustration on Chris’s willing body.

He pauses for just a second, eyes fixed on the narrow length of leather-wrapped cane that Phil is tapping lightly against his thigh. The cane only comes out very, very rarely, and Chris shivers at the memory of the way that it _hurts_ like nothing he’s ever felt before; an exquisite, searing, agony laid down in precise, deliberate stripes on his flesh. And that’s when Phil is calm, in control, not flayed raw by the horror of dead civilians and screaming crewmates. There’s something dangerous in him tonight, a tension coiled so tightly that its release could burn through all their carefully negotiated boundaries, could leave both of them in ashes.

As if he’s reading Chris’s apprehension Phil tilts his head and offers the faintest reassurance. “You know how to end it, if it gets too much.” And in a reckless moment of self-sacrifice Chris meets his gaze, defiant and terrified all at once.

“Do it, take as much as you need, I won’t break.”

The first strike is gentle enough to sting rather than sear, and Chris sighs out a breath as the blood pools, thick and hot in his groin, his cock reacting to the tease of pain. Four more, all across the broad muscles of his back, and he can feel the nerves singing under heated skin, the strokes controlled enough to burn without drawing blood and Chris begins to relax. He can’t see Phil, doesn’t dare lift his head from its customary submissive, chin-to-chest position, but the even, measured touch of the cane and the slow, sweet pulse of arousal that has his cock hard and flat against his abdomen ease his earlier apprehension and restore his native reckless confidence.

“That the best you’ve got?” He knows, deep down, that Phil is holding back, that both of them need far more than this tease, just enough pain to make Chris flinch, but not nearly enough to drive away the blood and screams and terror of today for even a little while.

“I don’t want to lose control, Chris…I don’t want to really hurt you.”

And for just a moment Chris does dare to lift his head, twisting just far enough that he can catch Phil’s eye and hold his gaze in a rash moment of insolence. “Yes you do.”

Phil goes rigid with tension; his breath hitching in a fast gasp and Chris drops his gaze, watching as Phil’s cock twitches and throbs with sudden need, his own leaking and wet, thrumming against his belly. He pushes once more, harder.

“Let go, Phil…just let go...you can’t break me.”

****

He’s wrong.

He’s very, very wrong.

Chris has no idea how much time passes before the urge to scream out his safe word becomes so overwhelming that he has to turn his head and bite down hard on the thick muscle of his own flexed bicep. The pain consumes every nerve ending, every part of his consciousness and he’s only barely aware that there’s blood and sweat soaking into the carpet beneath his knees, barely aware too that his erection is gone, long past the point where pain plays into arousal, but he’s still too fucking stubborn to give in.

His heart shudders in his chest as he realizes that he doesn’t have the strength to raise his head to look at Phil, and even if he could, he’s not sure he could see through the sweat and tears that are blinding him. But even without being able to look Phil in the eye, every instinct tells him that they’ve both gone too far, that for perhaps the first and only time in their years together Phil is out of control; lost in some complicated lust of blood and pain and power and Chris hopes to god that he’s not so far gone that the sound of Chris’s voice isn’t going to be able to bring him out of it.

Unsure how he’s even still upright, he twists away from the next strike, the sudden flush of cold across his skin and the intensifying tremor in his muscles signaling that he’s getting dangerously close to descending into shocky semi-consciousness. And then, with a sharp inhale, he releases the flesh of his arm and gasps out the one word that has the potential to bring this to an end.

“Sierra…fuck, Phil….sierra…”

And everything stops.

Chris drops forward onto the decking, resting on his forehead for a moment before he falls to the side and lies shaking, trying to hold in the quiet, desperate sounds of pain, waiting for something, anything from Phil.

It seems to take an age as Chris lies there, cold and pain chasing each other across his skin until he’s shivering uncontrollably, but eventually he feels the tentative touch of a hand on his head, can feel the tremors in it as the fingers stroke gently through his hair and Phil whispers, a quiet, broken sound. “Oh Christ, oh Jesus fucking Christ, Chris. I’m sorry.”

Phil doesn't speak again until he’s released the leather bonds and Chris tries to stretch out, whimpering at the feel of his circulation returning to his hands and feet, the broken skin around his wrists and ankles suddenly wet with fresh blood.

“Don’t move…fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Phil’s voice trails off in a hitched breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob, and Chris feels him shudder and lean in until his forehead his resting on the top of Chris’s head, and for all the agony of his flayed skin, it’s the sound of Phil weeping that makes Chris ache anew.

“Not your fault, shouldn’t have let it get out of control.” His throat is raw from screaming, and even those few words hurt, but Chris keeps going. “My fault, Phil, just as much as yours.”

In the fifteen years that they’ve known each other Chris has never seen Phil break down. He’s always contained, always controlled; stress and grief and anger and frustration vented through sex and sarcasm rather than overt displays of emotion. And the pain of Phil’s distress shocks Chris makes him desperate to mitigate it, even in the midst of his own agony. But he can’t move, the pain, excruciating when he’s motionless, becomes unbearable when he even attempts to raise himself off the decking so he settles for stretching out a hand, searching for one of Phil’s and gripping it tightly. “Shh…it’s okay…it’s nothing you can’t fix.”

****

It takes almost an hour for Phil to slowly, carefully reconstruct the layers of traumatized skin and muscle on Chris’s back and flanks and he’s silent through most of it. Replying in monosyllables as Chris tries to persuade him into sharing whatever it was that had triggered the uncharacteristic loss of control, shame and guilt rolling off him in waves as he avoids Chris’s gaze, It’s only when he’s done and Chris moves, feeling the tender sting of skin that’s only minutes old, stretching across his muscles that he whispers again. “I’m sorry…”

“We’ll talk about this when you’re ready. But, Phil…” Chris strokes the back of his fingers along Phil’s cheek, coaxing him to look up, fighting a wave of sorrow at the bleak pain in Phil’s eyes when he finally does. “…it was my responsibility to ask you to stop. And when I asked, you stopped…that’s all you need to know for now. You did _exactly_ what you were supposed to do. The rest is down to me.”

It’s not strictly true, Phil had it in his power to stop at any time once he realized they were going too far, but Chris has always known that Phil’s need for domination and discipline comes from some dark, unspoken place in his past and he’s content to take the blame for this if it eventually leads them to a place where Phil feels safe enough to share that part of himself with Chris.

_fin_


End file.
